Red Threads
by Scribere Est Agere
Summary: We have to stop meeting like this. A few clichés, and a few more.
1. Thread 1

**Title:** Red Threads  
**Author:** Scribere Est Agere  
**Pairing:** Goren/Eames  
**Spoilers: **Everything  
**Rating:** M  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me.

**Summary:** We have to stop meeting like this. A few clichés, and a few more.

/

Chinese folklore says there is an invisible red thread connecting those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break.

/

"I don't believe this," she says over the rim of her second drink. She says it quietly to herself, but her sister — head bent over the menu and back to the entrance — hears.

"What?" Liz glances up and sees Alex's expression. She twists around, follows her line of vision and smirks. It's a family trait. "Is that who I think it is?"

Alex just continues to stare. Liz shakes her head.

"Well, well. Look what the wind blew in."

The restaurant is busy and noisy and full of happy strangers and Alex is just starting to relax for the first time in weeks. Two Margaritas with plans for a third and nowhere to go but home to bed afterward. Alone. Nowhere to be tomorrow, either. Three Margaritas and dinner with her sister with no talk or thought about work and then _he_ walks in.

Liz cranes her neck again.

"Stop that," Alex hisses.

"What? I haven't seen him in, like, two years."

Alex slides down a bit in her seat but doesn't look away. Liz is almost completely turned around in her chair.

"Wow. He looks—" She bites her lip.

"What?" Alex snaps in spite of herself, desperate for an impartial opinion of Bobby. Liz shrugs.

"Tired. He looks tired."

Alex closes her eyes. Tired. She shrugs, one shoulder.

"He's been through a lot recently. His mom, his brother, work stuff. I mean, he's pretty intense and he doesn't sleep well or eat right and…" _God, listen to me._ She forces herself to stop.

Liz just looks at her.

_Four_ Margaritas and maybe _dancing_ afterward if she can talk Liz into it and maybe a handsome stranger and nowhere to be tomorrow and goddammit he walks in.

And he's not alone.

"Who the hell is that?" Liz's eyebrows arch.

"Will you turn around, please?" Alex gulps the rest of her drink, glass clinking against her teeth, salt rubbing the inside of her lips. She shakes her head. Who, indeed. A woman. A woman with long, dark hair and wide, dark eyes. And lips. Red lips. Bobby has his hand resting lightly on her back.

"She's gorgeous."

Alex says nothing to this, because really, what can she say?

They're waiting to be seated and Alex has a sudden impulse to hide under the table. But she also doesn't want to let them out of her sight.

"Well." Liz finally turns back and settles herself. "Small world, huh? What are you having?"

Alex watches them walk to the other side of the room. Bobby pulls out her chair. When they're both sitting all she can see are glimpses of his head above the other patrons. She wonders what they're talking about, what they'll be doing after, if he'll take her back to his apartment or out somewhere, if he'll kiss her—

"_Alex_."

She starts. Liz is staring at her. "Didn't you just see him yesterday?" Her voice is teasing but her eyes are not. Alex glares. Then she shrugs as casually as possible.

"I'm just wondering who she is. She looks … familiar."

Liz snorts. "Yeah. She looks like every guy's fantasy. What are you _having_?"

Alex suddenly feels like crying. She fumbles with her purse, her napkin, the hem of her skirt.

"Well. This is certainly an interesting situation." She can feel her sister's cool, calculating gaze on her and Liz's voice has the same superior tone she used when they were teenagers and she knew she was right about something and it's just as fucking annoying to hear it now.

"There's nothing remotely interesting about this situation."

Liz leans forward. Alex looks up.

"Have you two been…involved?"

Alex laughs. Involved. Good god. If she only knew.

"I mean sexually."

"I know what you mean, and _no_."

"Do you want to be?"

"What?" She tries to look appropriately shocked and disapproving. "No!"

"All right, then get over it! Let's order already."

"I don't want food. I just want to go!" The words are out of her mouth before she can censor them, but once they're spoken she knows they're true. She can't sit here. She just cannot. She catches another glimpse of his head and her heart lurches.

"Jesus, Alex. And you tell me there's nothing going on between you two."

"There _isn't_. I just don't want to stay—"

"All right! All right."

"I'm just going to the bathroom and then let's get out of here, okay?"

"Fine! Fine. I'll take care of the bill."

She jumps up and realizes she's not steady, not at all, not with two Margaritas and no food and bad nerves to boot and god, she grips the edge of the table, steadies herself and totters away. Liz can only shake her head.

Once in the confines of the cool cavernous bathroom she forces herself to calm down, to breathe from the diaphragm, to attempt to sort out exactly what the fuck is going on. Bobby's on a date. Yes. Fine. Whatever. _So? Who cares?_ As she studies her reflection, pale and drawn, she realizes with a sudden rush of insight and crystal clarity that she does. She cares.

She cares and because she cares and because she _can't care_ she needs to leave. Now. If only she wasn't so _dizzy_.

She walks out of the bathroom and right into Bobby's chest. Red, she thinks. He's wearing a red tie. She doesn't think she's ever seen him wear a red tie in her life.

"Sorry—"

"Excuse me—"

"Eames?"

"Shit," she mutters.

"Eames!" His hand is under her elbow and her elbow is on fire.

"It's me," she says brightly, smiling, attempting to maneuver past his considerable form. The hallway is too narrow for comfort and he's not moving an inch and he's not letting go. He just stands there staring down at her like he's encountered his very own ghost. She puts a hand flat on the wall, tries to stand still.

"What are you doing here?" He's still holding her elbow. Still on fire.

"Uh…I'm here with Liz. My sister. Dinner." She sways a little. He's still not moving. Or is he? It's hard to tell. "You?"

"Uh…" She can't really read the expression on his face but he's still watching her intently and when she sways again he frowns. "Are you all right?"

"Fine. I'm good. We were just leaving, actually. Liz is paying and then we're leaving, so I should go, and I'll let you get back to your date—"

"Alex—"

"Seriously. I need to go, because my sister is really impatient and we have plans, so—"

He moves his hand finally, from her elbow down to her hand and tucks her arm under his arm and she gives in and leans against him heavily and he walks her back to her table. Liz is standing there, arms crossed, foot tapping, and when she sees the two of them she laughs, then quickly stifles it.

"Hey, Bobby," she says. "How _are_ you? You know, I thought I saw you come in. Alex swore it wasn't you, but here you are."

"Hi, Liz. I'm good, thanks. How are you?"

"Great. Just catching up with Alex. She's always so busy with work, you know? I have to drag her _out_ once in awhile. But, you're not here alone, are you?"

Bobby tenses. She can feel his hand tighten around hers, his thumb pressing against the pulse point in her wrist and she closes her eyes briefly. Spinning. Not good.

"No. An old friend, actually. Catching up as well."

"Right. Good."

They stand there, the three of them, staring at one another.

He leans down then, way down, puts his mouth very close to her ear so she can almost feel his lips there and he murmurs, "I'll talk to you later."

Then Liz takes her arm and waves airily to Bobby and pulls her away.

"Where are we going?" Alex asks as they drive.

"I'm taking you home, you lush. And next time I'm picking the restaurant."

"You think I planned that?"

Even in the dark Alex can see too much, can see her sister's face: exasperated, amused, concerned.

"I don't know what to think about you two."

/

He calls, of course, because he said he would. Not that she was waiting or anything.

"How are you?" he asks.

"How was the date?" she asks.

"It wasn't exactly a date—"

"If it walks like a duck—"

"Why did you go there tonight?" he says quietly.

She puts her hand across her eyes and tries to think.

"I don't know. We just…did. Why?"

"I felt weird when I walked in."

"Weird."

He laughs.

"And when I saw you there, in the hallway, when I realized it was_ you_—"

He pauses.

"What?"

"Don't you think it's…odd that we both ended up there?"

"Coincidence."

"You think? I don't know if I believe in coincidence."

Alex laughs. "Then what?"

He's quiet for so long she thinks he may have fallen asleep.

"Have I ever told you the story about the red thread?"

She shifts on the bed and smiles in the dark.

"No."

"Remind me to, one day."

/


	2. Thread 2

**Title:** Red Threads  
**Author: **Scribere Est Agere  
**Pairing:** Goren/Eames  
**Spoilers: **Everything  
**Rating:** M  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me.

**Summary:** We have to stop meeting like this. A few clichés, and a few more

/

Chinese folklore says there is an invisible red thread connecting those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break.

/

"I don't believe this," she says one cold and windy Saturday afternoon in November. Clouds low and heavy just above her head, wind whipping her hair around, nose starting to run. She has two small boys clinging to each of her gloved hands in front of the AMC Empire on Broadway when she sees him coming towards her. His head is down, shoulders hunched into his dark coat and pedestrians move out of his way without a second glance.

Her nephew tugs impatiently on one hand, his friend on the other. Their breath billows around their small heads. They are very loud and won't stop _moving_.

"We're ready to go in," Sam says, yanking and hanging. "Let's go, let's go!"

"Just a minute, guys," she says. He's not looking at anyone. He has two books tucked under his arm, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.

_Where are you?_ she wonders, watching his bent head. _What's going on in there?_

He's actually going to walk right by her, less than two feet away, and she almost lets him, mesmerized by his loping gait, then at the last second calls his name. He startles, looks up, gives her a slow smile.

"What are you doing here?" she asks.

"Nothing. Just Saturday errands. You?"

She tilts her head. "Movie date."

"Ah." He looks down. "And these are…"

"My dates."

"That's nice. Hi boys."

The boys stop trying to kick each other and stare at Bobby.

"Who are you?" the nephew asks loudly.

"We work together," Alex says. "This is Bobby." Sam sniffles and rubs his nose with his mitten. Bobby nods. The boys resume kicking.

"Well," Bobby shoves his hands deeper, hunches his shoulders higher. "I guess I should get going."

"Right."

He doesn't move.

"Hey," she says suddenly. "Why don't you come with us?"

"To the movie?"

"Yeah. Why not? Do you have any other plans?"

He looks up at the marquee. "What's playing?"

"I don't know. Something with a talking dog."

He considers. "I don't know if I should."

She suddenly wants him to, very badly.

"Why not?"

"Isn't it…inappropriate?"

"It's rated G."

He smiles.

"Look…" she tries again. "You'd be doing me a favour, really. I'm outnumbered here."

Sam's foot connects solidly with her ankle and Alex winces, tries not to swear. Bobby smiles. She can see he is wavering. He looks at her.

"Talking dog, huh?"

She nods.

"Lots of them, apparently."

"You buying popcorn?"

"Can't watch a movie without it."

"Drinks?"

"Only non-alcoholic, I'm afraid."

"Hold my hand if I get scared?"

She honestly doesn't know how to respond to _that_ so she laughs instead and ushers everyone inside before she says something she'll regret or he changes his mind.

Her nephew _has_ to sit on the aisle, his friend beside him. She settles the boys with their popcorn and drinks and sits next to Bobby.

"This better be funny," he says as she shoulders off her heavy coat, unwinds her scarf and leans back.

"Or else what?"

"Or else I get to pick next time." He's caught her off guard for the second time in half an hour and she wonders where all her witty, sarcastic retorts have disappeared to. This isn't like me, she thinks as she tightens her chilled fingers around the red-striped popcorn bag. But, she thinks as she looks around the theatre, this isn't like _us_ either.

And then the lights dim.

She tries to remember the last time she sat in a darkened movie theatre with anyone other than her sister or a small child who used her pant legs as a napkin and needed to use the bathroom every five minutes. Joe. It must have been Joe, because they used to see movies all the time, at least once a week. Escape from reality, he used to say. Healthier than alcohol, he used to say. She tries to remember _any_ movie they saw together and draws a blank. How can that be possible? She blinks, hard. She knows one will come to her, eventually, but she's pretty sure there were no talking animals involved.

She holds the popcorn on her lap and is acutely aware of each time Bobby reaches over to take some. She looks straight ahead and so does he, but she can still see the shape and outline of his face in the dark. She's also acutely aware that every time she reaches in, he does, too. Every time. And their fingers touch, briefly, every time. Sometimes it's just the tips, sometimes the knuckles. Sometimes he actually takes whatever she's holding right out of her hand and smiles while he does it.

When he's thirsty he takes a drink of soda and hands the cup to her without a word. She takes it without a word and wraps her lips around the straw, throat working hard, and is aware that his lips were there just before hers. Far too aware. She hands the cup back and he takes another long sip.

She waits until he's had his turn with the popcorn, then reaches in. Immediately he does, too. She's about to make a quip about theatre manners and popcorn etiquette when he's suddenly holding her hand. It isn't just a brush, or a tease this time. His fingers are actually wrapped around hers inside the bag and she frowns in the dark, biting down on her smile because it's a wholly interesting and most pleasant sensation but of course she has to say _something_ and the only thing she can think to whisper is: "Did I miss a scary part?"

He shakes his head.

"It's good to be prepared," he whispers back.

"Aunt Alex!" Sam hisses at her from two seats over. "I have to pee!"

Of course, she thinks. Of course, _of course._

She extricates herself and hustles Sam up the aisle. She feels oddly light-headed and the lobby lights are glaring and make her squint horribly.

"Are you enjoying the movie?" she asks while she waits for him.

"Uh huh," he says. "Why is that guy here?"

"Bobby?"

"Yeah. Him."

"I invited him."

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"No, Sam. I just work with him. I told you that."

"Oh. When's he gonna be your boyfriend?"

"Uh…" Alex feels her face reddening. "We _work_ together. Remember?"

"Yeah, but Mom says it's only a matter of time."

"She said what?" It comes out more sharply than she intends. Sam sticks his hands under the water faucet for two seconds and slaps them vigorously on his pants.

"Oops! That was a secret. I forgot. Come on…we're gonna miss it!"

When she sits down the bag is nowhere to be seen. She's about to ask where it is and if he ate it all while she was gone and if he did, could he please go buy some more when he reaches over and takes her hand again, just like that. This time their arms lie on the armrest between their seats and it's a full-fledged handhold, fingers entwined, palm against palm. Alex is having a hard time focusing. When Liz asks her later about the movie, she is hard-pressed to remember a single thing about it. Warm and soft and tingly are the only words that come to mind.

Afterwards, in the lobby, she winds her scarf around her neck and pulls on her gloves and helps the boys with their coats while Bobby studies the movie posters intently.

"Did you boys like it?" she asks. Sam shrugs. His friend is too busy pulling his hat down over his eyes and banging into the wall repeatedly to answer.

"It was all right," Sam says.

"I agree," Bobby says. "I see plenty others here that would be much more entertaining."

Alex rolls her eyes. Bobby stands next to her.

"We should do that again sometime," he says, leaning over.

"Well, Sam was talking about wanting to see that robot thing."

"I meant…just you and I," he smiles. "But, robots work, too."

Alex has run out of things to say.

"It's funny I ran into you," he says outside in the late afternoon cold. It's even darker and windier now. Snow clouds, she thinks. Winter is waiting, but not for long. He studies her as seriously as he did the posters. He points. "Red."

"What?"

"Your scarf. It's red."

She looks down. "Yeah…?"

He starts to say something, stops and starts again.

"I … wasn't even going to go this way today. I don't know why I did."

"You didn't look like you were paying much attention to anything when I saw you."

"I was. I knew exactly where I was going."

"Well, lucky for you, then," she teases. "Think of all the talking dogs you would have missed."

"Yeah." He smiles, but doesn't quite look at her as he turns to go. "And other things."

/


	3. Thread 3

**Title: **Red Threads  
**Author: **Scribere Est Agere  
**Pairing:** Goren/Eames  
**Spoilers:** Everything  
**Rating:** M  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me.

**Summary:** We have to stop meeting like this. A few clichés, and a few more.

/

A/N: This one is for Lauren, who came up with all the best titles.

/

Chinese folklore says there is an invisible red thread connecting those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break.

/

"I don't believe this." She stares down the pimply movie store clerk who blushes and shrugs and stammers incoherently. "I reserved _Funny Face_ yesterday. I purposely called 15 minutes ago just to make sure you had the copy in the store before I drove here." She pauses. "You said you had one."

"I…I did have one. I…had one. I did. I'm really sorry ma'am." The clerk ("Johnny," white plastic nametag pinned lopsided on red polyester shirt), does seem really sorry that the movie is nowhere to be found.

"So where is it? It's not on the shelf. Is it behind the counter?"

The clerk makes a half-hearted attempt to look behind the counter but finds nothing.

"I'm really sorry, ma'am. It's…not here. Jason must have rented it out."

"Jason."

The clerk waves at another pimply teenager who's checking in movies. "Hey. Jason. Did you rent uh…"

"_Funny Face_," Alex says slowly.

"Funny what?" Jason shrugs. "What is that about, clowns?" Alex wants to cry. "I dunno, man. Check the computer."

Johnny checks the computer.

"Weird. It shows it's here. Did you check the shelf?"

Alex sighs. "Forget it. I'll have to get something else."

"I'm really sorry, ma'am. No one _ever_ rents that movie. Seriously."

"Well, they should. It's really good. And stop calling me ma'am."

She wanders the garishly lit aisles aimlessly, scanning movie cases that hold absolutely no interest for her. She refuses to watch anything even vaguely police or detective-related as they're always inaccurate and too gory for her tastes. Romance is too…romantic. And unbelievable. Comedies are generally not funny. Action/Adventure. No. Drama. No thanks. She has enough drama to deal with in her Real Life. Adult. Right. She wanders by the Adult Section (Closeted behind swinging door bearing sign _MUST be over 18 to enter!!_) when she hears a low chuckle that makes the small hairs on the back of her neck rise. An all-too-familiar chuckle. She hears it again and realizes she can't resist knowing. She casts a quick, furtive glance around the store, realizes no one is watching, and darts quickly through the swinging door.

Bobby. Bobby holding a DVD and studying its cover intently. Alex walks up next to him, sees he's found a special section created just for them. _The Schlong Arm of the Law_. (Police cap, handcuffs and a billy club!) _Vadge of Honor_. (Red, red lips and an unbuttoned police shirt). _Cops and Rubbers_. (Self- explanatory) _Quiminal Intent_.

Lots of cascading hair, lots of plastic surgery, lots of shiny, pursed lips, lots and lots and _lots_ of skin.

"Good god," she says loudly and he drops his movie with a clatter.

"Eames! You scared the _shit_—"

"We really have to stop meeting like this, Bobby." She pauses. "And I mean _really_."

He stoops to retrieve his movie. Alex tilts her head to read.

"_Collars and Cuffs_. Interesting choice. She…really fills out that uniform, doesn't she?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Not picking up the movie I reserved, that's what. I heard boyish laughter in here and decided to check it out."

"This isn't what it looks like."

"Really? Because from here it sure looks like a lot of half-naked men named Biff or Ace screwing a lot of half-naked, large-breasted women named Candi or Trixie."

"I mean…I'm on…official business."

"Official business." She smirks. "Even I don't buy that one, Bobby."

"It's true. Friend of Lewis's…bachelor party. I'm in charge of…" He shrugs.

"The entertainment."

"Well. Some of it, at least." He looks away.

"Hmm. Guess you won't find any talking animals in this section, huh?"

He smiles down at her. "Oh, you never know."

They stand there. Where to look? What to say?

"Yeah. Well. Guess I'll…let you get to it, then."

"Wait." He clears his throat. "Maybe you can help."

She laughs. "Are you serious? I'd have no clue. Believe me."

"Why? Haven't you ever seen one of these before?"

"No! Lord. No." She pauses. "Okay. Maybe once. College roommate. Some drunken party. It was so horrible and so…degrading I walked out after about 30 seconds."

"Well, some _are_ worse than others."

She stares at him. "You're…quite familiar with these, then?"

"On occasion. You know." He doesn't even begin to blush.

"No…I don't, actually. And I don't think I want to."

"Lighten up, Eames. They can be very…"

"Don't. Really."

"What?"

"Don't stand there and try to discuss the finer points of porn with me, all right?"

"Some of them can be, on occasion, rather artistic."

Alex snorts, loudly.

"Fine. You don't think these… _works of art_…are demeaning to women?"

"Some are. But so are some mainstream movies. So are some television shows."

"Not to this extent."

"To each his own. Or, her own." Smug bastard. "I personally don't see anything wrong with it."

"Okay…so you'd be all right with your sister or your _daughter_ being a porn star."

"Oh, don't take that route. For one, I don't even _have_ a sister—"

"Don't be so goddamn literal—"

"And two, obviously no one _wants_ their daughter to grow up to be a porn star, Eames. It's certainly no parent's _dream_—"

"So, really, you _do_ see something wrong with it, because growing up to be a doctor or teacher or _police officer_ would be just fine—"

"Well, police officer I might take issue with. Very dangerous job, y'know."

Alex doesn't even know what she's upset about at this point. She just knows she wants to get out of this room, _now_. And she wants to forget this ever, ever happened. She shoves her hands in her pockets and takes a deep breath.

"I just happen to think that sex should be kept…more private, I guess. Not spread wide open and splashed across a movie display. Or gawked at by multitudes of people."

He stares at her.

"Some couples like to watch these together." He shrugs. "So I've heard."

For some reason, the tall brunette's image flashes through Alex's thoughts. She slaps it away, irritated.

"Well, you know, maybe _other women_ you spend time with get off on this kind of crap, but I do not."

She can almost hear wheels turning, can smell wisps of smoke as he works very hard to process that bit of information. Other women. Other. Women. He leans back then, folds his arms across his chest and nods in dawning comprehension.

"Okay. Okay, I get it. This is some kind of…jealousy thing."

And he's not even being condescending, or sweetly teasing. He really thinks he's figured it out. She now understands why children throw temper tantrums. She totally gets why her nephew jumps up and down and stomps his feet and screams until his face is beet red before collapsing on the floor in exhaustion. She stares at him.

"Did you just say what I think you just said?"

He doesn't say anything.

"Are you fucking serious?" she yells.

"Eames—"

"You have the _nerve_—

"Calm down, all right?"

"Who the _hell_ do you think—"

"Calm down!"

"Can I help you with anything?" A timid voice sounds behind them.

Alex and Bobby turn. Johnny.

"What do you mean?" Alex snaps.

"Well…it's just. You're…kinda yelling at each other. You're making a bit of a…ruckus. I just wondered if you needed…you know, help making a selection."

Alex makes an indescribable snort of disgust. "A selection. Perfect. Just perfect. Really." She shakes her head, points at Bobby. "Yes. He's having a hard time making a selection. See what you can do, Johnny."

"Eames—"

She leaves. The men watch her leave.

Johnny studies the wall for a moment, then smiles.

"Here. Take this one home to her." Johnny hands Bobby a movie. Bobby looks at it. _Here Cums the Fuzz_. "It works wonders with the ladies."

Bobby stares at the cover, then at Johnny, who immediately reddens. "I mean. So I've heard."

/


	4. Thread 4

**Title: **Red Threads  
**Author: **Scribere Est Agere  
**Pairing: **Goren/Eames  
**Spoilers:** Everything  
**Rating:** M  
**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me.

**Summary: **We have to stop meeting like this. A few clichés, and a few more

/

Chinese folklore says there is an invisible red thread connecting those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break.

/

"I don't fucking believe this!" She leans forward in her seat, straining against the seatbelt and the bulk of her heavy woolen coat to see through the swirl of snow, the hiss and swipe of the windshield wipers. Her hands curl around the steering wheel, tight, then tighter. She feels the car's tires slide and buck on snow and slush and she wonders for the seventh time in the past 10 minutes just what the hell she was thinking attempting this drive today on her own.

She also wonders, for the thirteenth time, where the fuck Bobby is.

Her coffee sits in its holder, cold because she's too scared to take her hands off the wheel for even one reassuring, bitter sip. She'd also like to push her bangs out of her face, and maybe press two fingers hard against the headache swelling there, between her eyes. She wills her heart to slow down a bit by taking two deep breaths and counting to 10 in her head. She's not a nervous driver but fuck if she's never driven in conditions like these before.

She wonders for the fourteenth time where Bobby is and why he didn't answer his phone this morning when she called the second, the third time. Otherwise occupied, she thinks, but chooses to not follow that particular line of thought any further.

It's very cold, even with the car's heater on full, blasting against her feet and face, and all she can see is snow, white whirls, snow blowing up and down and backwards and sideways, the car's headlights barely making a dent in all the dense whiteness.

Her eyes shift to the car's clock: 10:13. She's been driving for almost an hour but she's not sure she has moved at all. She's not sure where she is or where she's going but she's quite sure she hasn't seen another vehicle for at least 15 minutes. Country roads in upstate New York. Country roads and a freak early-December snowstorm and apparently no one else is as stupid as she is this fine, blustery morning, including her partner, who chose to stay home in bed. _Whose_ bed remains undetermined.

She's seriously considering turning around and heading back to One PP and tracking down her missing partner and asking him personally _where the fuck he was_ when the car jerks and bucks again, violently this time, and the steering wheel takes on a life of its own, turning beneath her gloved hands in a vicious half-circle. She feels her body strain hard against the seatbelt, feels her head jerk to the right, then left, slamming into the window, before she is tilting down and down and moving fast and faster into a world that is white then dark then very cold.

/

"Goren! Where have you been?" Ross yells this from across the bullpen and Bobby looks up from his desk, tired and wary. Ross approaches and Bobby can see the anger in his craggy face, can feel the irritation radiating off him. "Your partner left an hour ago."

Eames.

Bobby frowns. "Left…?"

"Woodbourne Correctional? Your interview with Damien James? Ring any bells?"

His head clears, the fog lifts a bit.

"That was…"

"Today. Noon, actually. She waited as long as she could."

"She went…alone?"

"She had to. This is the only day he could see both of you. He'll be _very_ disappointed you couldn't attend." Ross pauses. "She tried calling you three times before she left."

His cell. Where did he leave it? Oh. God. He closes his eyes.

"How could you let her go without—"

"It's a two-hour drive. I wasn't thrilled about her going alone, but it had to be done and you were nowhere to be found." Ross pauses, glares. "What? You don't think she can handle it?"

Bobby shakes his head no, no, guilt blooming in his chest, straining against the edges of his ribcage. He glances out the office window at a wall of white, winds whipping and slapping.

"It's not that." He gestures. "The weather…"

Ross looks outside, frowns. "It didn't look that bad an hour ago. She hasn't called…"

Bobby picks up his coat as he stands, fumbling a little as he slides his arms in, more upset than he realizes because when it comes to her he's always more upset than he realizes.

"What route did she take?"

/

Her head is throbbing. She knows that much. Everything else is still pretty unclear.

She's leaning forward, resting on … something.

Her head _really_ hurts. Shit.

Think. Remember.

She was driving, then she wasn't anymore. Right. And Bobby was…nowhere. No place. In absentia. MIA.

The engine. The car is still running. It's warm, which is nice, but she thinks about tail pipes and snow and carbon monoxide and reaches out slowly to turn the engine off. Then she feels for the hazard lights switch, turns it on. It's about all she can manage for the time being.

She'd like to go to sleep, but she thinks that may not be the best idea she's ever had.

She opens her eyes. What is that _noise_? Wind. Wind blowing so hard the car is swaying, shaking, inching forward.

Where's her phone? In her bag. In her bag which is on the passenger seat. She reaches for it but feels a flare of pain in her shoulder which radiates to her head which makes her want to close her eyes again, but not sleep, because sleeping is not good.

Not sleeping, just resting.

The wind keeps blowing. The snow keeps falling.

/

He almost misses her.

He's been driving for 45 minutes. Driving as quickly as he dares, which isn't quickly at all, and refuting every horrible scenario he imagines finding her in and calling himself every horrible name he can think of.

Jerk. Asshole. Selfish. Bastard. Selfish jerk asshole bastard.

And so on.

He's driving, well, barely creeping along, straining forward against the seatbelt and scanning ahead and from side to side, and if not for the one red taillight feebly flashing at the side of the road, he'd never have seen her car at all. He comes to a skidding, fishtailing stop (is he by the side of the road or in the middle he has no fucking clue because everything is white and the wind is so loud he can't hear his own breathing as he slams the door open against the wind that slams him back and takes his breath away).

He staggers back against the force of the wind and closes his eyes against the icy sting of snow. His skin immediately feels red and raw and it hurts to breathe. He has forgotten his gloves of course and is wearing shoes but no matter, no time. The car in question is tilted nose-down in the ditch, not too far down, but the snow is deep and undisturbed, peaked and smooth, and up to his knees as he wades through it, towards it, towards her.

/

The front of the car is buried in snow, halfway over the hood. Bobby grips the roof as he inches down and down towards the driver's side. He can see nothing, nothing except snow and ice which he wipes away with his bare hands. Condensation? He pounds on the window but can't hear anything, can't see anything. Condensation is good, right? Right. It means she's breathing, right? Right.

Right. Fuck.

He yanks on the handle but there is too much snow and the door won't budge.

He climbs over the hood of the car. He can no longer feel his hands. He digs into the snow on the passenger's side until he can grasp the door handle, gives it a violent tug and it opens into the drift and he spreads it wide enough for him to slide inside.

/

She feels a blast of cold air and a flurry of movement beside her. _Shut the damn door_, she tries to say but her brain feels mushy and she can't hear anything and it's a dark white where she is and it's heavy. She's not sure why that particular word comes to mind, but there it is. Heavy.

She opens her eyes, tries to move against something soft and rather unyielding.

The movement moves closer. It has a scent, a sound. She feels pressure in her neck. It's not unpleasant.

_"Eames_."

_Bobby?_

"Are you hurt?"

Which is a silly question, she thinks, because right now pretty much everything kind of hurts, but her head especially. She nods because it's easier.

She waits.

After a long moment he pulls her to him.

/

Don't move her, he tells himself. He pushes two cold fingers into her neck and can't feel a thing. But then she opens her eyes and he assumes she's alive anyway, even without a pulse.

_"Eames_."

She stares at him, lolling, air bag and all.

"Are you hurt?" he says. She nods and her hair shifts and he sees the large purple lump on the side of her forehead. "Anywhere else?"

She thinks. She shakes her head, then winces. He wants to touch her. He wants to touch her all over to make sure, but his hands still aren't functioning properly and she might be hurt.

_Don't move her,_ he tells himself. _Don't, don't_.

He doesn't listen.

/

"Cold," she says very quietly against his neck and he wants to laugh. It's the first thing she says and it's the best fucking thing he's ever heard.

"Oh, I love you so much," he says quickly without realizing he's said it out loud. She frowns at him. The bump on her forehead is purple, pulsating. He wants to put his lips against it, but resists.

"What?"

He's manages to unbuckle her, maneuver her towards him, awkwardly. She is very cold. Even in his coldness he can feel hers radiating off her. In the two minutes he's been inside the car the snow has shifted again, piling up against both doors and he can't open them, can't budge them and even if he could, how could he get both of them back up the embankment, back to the road where no vehicles are traveling?

"What did you say?" she says again. "Because I think you said something and if you did say what I think you said I may very well be unconscious or hallucinating because—"

"I have to get you warm," he says abruptly.

"Because it's cold," she says.

"Yes. It's cold."

"Wait…" she says. "My phone."

"Where?"

"My bag."

The phone. In his haste to get to her he's forgotten. He fishes it out, punches in the number of One PP. Nothing. Nothing. He tries 911. And again. No signal. No matter. He shoves it in his coat pocket.

He clambers into the back seat and pulls her along under her arms, settles her next to him. He starts rubbing his hands together, trying to generate some heat. It's slow going. His hands don't feel attached to the ends of his arms. He rubs and blows and flexes until he can bend his fingers and make them do what needs to be done. He pulls her onto his lap, unbuttons his coat, unbuttons her coat. She watches this with some measure of amusement. Then her head droops against his shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

He keeps unbuttoning. Clumsy, desperate.

"Wait," he says. "Wait."

/

Her head against his neck.

His hands brushing against her breasts in his urgency to reach her skin.

Heavy breaths and hammering heartbeats.

He's had dreams like this.

/

The wind blows. It grows darker. He has his arms wrapped around her, inside her coat. He presses his hands flat against her back, under her sweater, under the T-shirt beneath that. He counts the bumps along her spine, feels the separations between her ribs. She doesn't protest. In fact, her hands are inside his clothes, too, but he can't think about it too much, because it's all about staying alive right now. Heat, contact, skin on skin.

Survival.

He no longer knows which way is up, so he just hangs on. He keeps hanging on.

/

From time to time he tries the phone, which means removing his hands from her body and digging the phone out of his pocket. No signal, no signal.

When he slides his hands back in place she sighs a little and he wonders when this stopped being just about survival.

/

"Can you talk to me?" he asks.

"What about?" she says.

"Anything."

She thinks.

"My head hurts."

He nods. "I bet it does."

He can feel her breath warm against his neck when she talks. He likes it.

"What's that noise?" she asks.

"The wind."

"Why are we moving?"

"We're not, really. It's a storm. We're stuck in a snowstorm and it's snowing and I can't get the doors open and—" He's starting to babble. He forces himself to stop.

"Where are we?" she asks.

"Not quite sure. Halfway to Woodbourne, maybe."

"Where were _you_?"

He presses his hands down harder, pulls her closer.

"I missed your calls."

"I know _that_," she says, irritated. He smiles against her hair.

"Where were you this _morning_?" she asks.

He starts to reply when the car is buffeted hard by a gust of wind. He pulls her closer.

"Why are you here _now_?" she persists.

"Because I love you," he says. It all seems very simple, even though he knows it's not, and what the hell, he might as well just say it.

There follows a terrific silence which is punctuated only by howling winds that he's grown mostly immune to.

"Where were you this morning?" she asks again.

"Let's talk about something else," he says.

/

The wind has become a constant presence. Like living next to the railway tracks, or Niagara Falls, he's become used to the noise more quickly than he could have imagined.

He pulls her against him until he can feel the steady, reassuring thud of her heartbeat on his chest. He wonders what she would say if she was more coherent.

Instead she just says: "Warm."

"Yes."

"Warm," she says.

"Yes," he says.

/

"How did you find me?" she asks at one point.

"I…don't know," he says. "I just did."

"You seem to have that knack," she says.

"I saw the tail light," he remembers. "It was red."

"Hmm," she says. She doesn't really care, but it's nice to hear his voice so close to her ear. It's nice to feel his hands on her, even if it's just about keeping her from freezing. It's just nice.

"I almost missed it," he says and pulls her closer because missing it, missing her, is not something he cares to think about.

"But, you didn't."

"No."

"Of course," she can't resist, "if you'd just shown up this morning when you were supposed to—"

"Let's talk about something else," he says, but what, he doesn't say.

/

What if no one finds us? he thinks.

"What if no one finds us?" she says. Her hands curl against his sides. They're cold and shake slightly, even under his clothes.

"They will."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

"Doesn't matter," she says slowly. "I'm quite comfortable like this."

/

He's not quite sure how the kissing begins, or who starts it, but it does, and someone does, and he's just fine with that.

His hands slide up and down her back, then slide to her front, up under her breasts, but not over, not yet. She moves closer to him, moves her hands as he moves his, up and down his back, then his front. And her mouth moves like his does, on his mouth. Heat is generated. Heat is good.

"Your lips are warm," she says as she kisses him again and again.

"Yours, too," he says as he kisses her, again and again and _again_.

No, he thinks. They're _hot_.

/

Someone finds them after all.

He hears the roar and grind of a snowplow but he also hears the wind stop, which is even louder.

His watch says 4:46 p.m. when he looks at it. The next sound he is aware of is grating, sliding, digging. Voices. Other voices, anxious, shouting. The front door being pried open.

"You all right in there?" someone says loudly in the new silence.

Neither of them is sure how to answer.

/

Her face is white against the whiter sheets. If he never sees her lying in a hospital bed again it will be too soon.

"How are you?" he asks.

"Fine," she says. They are both very polite.

"How much do you remember?" he asks carefully, not quite looking at her.

"Enough," she says, not quite looking at him.

He listens to the silence outside the hospital window.

"Lucky you found me," she says finally.

I'm the lucky one, he thinks.

/

A week later she knocks on his door, moody and distracted, looking, perhaps, for a new reason to resent him.

"You never answered my question," she says when he finally opens the door that night. He only opens it a crack and his face in the semi-darkness is semi-anguished.

"What question?" he says helplessly, but he knows what she wants to know. He can't answer.

"Forget it," she says, turning to go. "Never mind."

"Why are you here now?" he asks, reaching out to catch her arm. He misses, but she stops anyway. If he looks hard enough he'll see she's about to cry, but she won't, because she doesn't in front of him, ever.

Because I love you, she says, but he doesn't hear, because she doesn't say it out loud and he doesn't listen hard enough anyway.

/


	5. Thread 5

**Title:** Red Threads  
**Author:** Scribere Est Agere  
**Pairing:** Goren/Eames  
**Spoilers:** Everything  
**Rating:** M  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me.

**Summary:** We have to stop meeting like this. A few clichés, and a few more.

//

A/N: And did I mention this is clichéd? Why yes, I think I did.

//

Chinese folklore says there is an invisible red thread connecting those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break.

//

"I don't believe this."

She finds herself whispering even though no one can possibly hear her over the undulating din of the bar. She's waiting for her sister — full circle, she thinks suddenly — and of course Liz is late and of course she sees him, alone this time, sitting at the bar, elbows propped up, drink in hand — and why does this keep happening? She's staring at his broad back and bent head when he turns, slowly, sips from his glass, surveys the scene before him.

Oh.

It isn't it him after all she realizes with a dull shock. She could have _sworn_ it was, the twitchy mannerisms, the slope of the neck, the curl of the hair. But, it's not him after all and only when her brain fully registers this fact does her heart rate slow just a bit. She also realizes with a dull shock that she's a tiny bit disappointed.

Her cell rings and her hands shake as she answers.

"I'm so sorry, sweetie—" Liz begins and goes on about "delayed at work" and "try again next week" and "sorry, sorry _sorry_ about being such a drag" and "please don't be mad" and all Alex wants to do is get the hell out of there before she does something stupid. But, of course it's too late for that.

She realizes she's staring. She tries to stop, but not soon enough. He sees, and he smiles, slow and hungry. She shoves her phone in her bag, fumbles for her wallet but then he's there, close enough to touch.

"Hi," he says and it's a greeting, but also an invitation.

She shakes her head, as if to clear it. "Sorry," she says. "I thought…you were someone else."

"Ah," he says, studying her slightly bent head, flushed cheeks. "Someone else who resembles me. Someone else who you're attracted to, from the look of it."

She has absolutely nothing to say to this that wouldn't sound like she was being strangled by her own voice.

"Sorry," she says again and stands to leave.

"What are you drinking?" he says then and she knows he's done this before and because she hasn't done it before — well, at least not since long-gone college days — and because she can't stop thinking about snowbound cars and soft, cold kisses, she pauses, stares him straight in the Bobby-esque face and tells him. And lets him buy her the next one. And the one after that.

His name, it turns out, is Robert and he's an actor, which is pretty much what she was expecting.

//

Alex Eames is not the type of person to frequent bars, with or without her sister in tow. Or check out men. Or drink too much. Or kiss near strangers in the hallway of her apartment. She kisses this stranger there, pushed up against the cool steel door because she's pretty sure she won't be inviting him inside. Because Alex Eames is _definitely not_ the type of person to invite near strangers from bars into her apartment or into her bed after a couple of drinks. Even if they are Doppelgangers.

This particular Doppelganger kisses particularly well, but not, she notes, as well as The Real Deal, whose kisses she wishes she could forget because _this, here, right now_, is easy and sweet and nice and why can't she just find some sweet and nice guy and maybe have a regular boyfriend for once?

Why indeed.

"I think I need to stop this now," she says against the stranger's mouth. Robert, she amends. Robert The Actor. I'm rehearsing a scene, she thinks. This is all just…make believe and any minute now I'm going to just wake up.

And then, as if someone yells "Cut," she hears heavy footsteps, senses movement to her left and breaks the kiss for good, her gaze moving and settling on the large, bulky figure that is moving towards her, towards them, slow and faintly menacing.

Bobby. The _real_ Bobby.

No one in the suddenly too narrow and too hot hallways says a word. The stranger simply pulls away as Bobby comes closer. He's reluctant but more than aware of what he finds himself in the middle of. He pulls himself up to his full height and meets Bobby's gaze. He studies the all-too-similar dark hair, dark eyes, wide shoulders and he smirks. They twitch at each other briefly. Then the stranger nods, cuts his eyes to Alex who doesn't really know where to look or what to say.

"Sorry to intrude," Bobby says smoothly.

"Looks like I'm the one intruding," the stranger says and Bobby only nods, because it's true.

"I need to…talk to my _partner_," he continues in his Serious Voice and the stranger smiles, steps back, lifts his hands in truce, walks away. It seems to take him a long time to get to the door at the end of the hallway. Alex finally looks at Bobby.

"What are you doing here?" she says, leaning back against the door. Her legs don't feel connected to her body. She might fall down.

His eyes are dark, darker than she's ever seen them and he's so wound up he's almost vibrating. His hands are balled into fists, but he releases them a little, then balls them up again, over and over as he stands there staring at her with his dark eyes.

"I was…coming to talk to you," he says finally. His voice is very loud in the contained space. The harsh overhead hallway light casts black shadows beneath his eyes.

"Now?" she looks at her watch. She marvels at her steady hand.

"Yes, now." He shrugs. "Sorry for the…untimely interruption. Looks like it was just getting interesting."

Her throat feels rubbed dry, robbed of saliva. "It was," she says. She opens the door, lets them in. She knows he is staring at her as they shed their coats, their gloves, as she unwinds her scarf and kicks off her shoes, but she doesn't look in his direction once. She can't.

"So," he says from somewhere behind her. "New boyfriend?"

She laughs. It sounds like what it is: frenzied.

"I wouldn't call him that."

"Then what would you call him?"

Robert The Actor, she thinks and laughs again. She needs to stop doing that right now.

"We just met," she says and realizes her mistake before the final syllable leaves her lips.

"Pardon?"

She turns to face him. He's smiling but it's more of a grimace. She blinks, slowly.

"You heard me."

"Like…tonight? You met him tonight?" His voice drips both disdain and disbelief and she finds herself getting unreasonably angry and defensive.

She thinks about lying, but then thinks, what the fuck, and just nods, chin out, eyes bright even though she's nowhere close to tears.

"And you…brought him here? You brought him to your _home_? You're…a cop. I thought you were _smarter—_"

She snaps then. Then, just as quickly, she gathers herself. She even remembers to cross her arms and tilt her head a little.

"Okay. Okay, I get it. This is some kind of…jealousy thing."

He stops, mouth open like she's slapped him or punched him but that's all the satisfaction she gets because then he's nodding and his hands are doing that clenching/unclenching thing again.

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe it is," he says and now she _feels_ like she's been slapped or punched and she moves on stiff legs to her couch where she sits, pulls a pillow against her stomach. He remains by the door, watching, waiting.

"You have absolutely no fucking right to be jealous of anything I do," she says quietly.

"Or anyone you fuck," he says. "Is that it?"

"I wasn't going to put it quite so crudely, but yes."

He moves closer. "And why is that?"

She thinks of the brunette. Then she thinks of the snow and the car and his hands under her sweater, his mouth on hers. She thinks of the brunette again. Full circle. Her stomach hurts. She pulls the pillow tighter.

"Because…because we're _partners_, Bobby. We work together. I mean, why would you even need to ask me this?"

"I'm asking because that guy…the one who isn't your new boyfriend…he looked kinda familiar."

"Did he."

"Yeah, he did. What do you think that means?"

"I think it means whatever you want it to mean, because I know you'll _make_ it mean whatever you want it to mean."

"Funny."

_Funny like how your girlfriend looks _absolutely nothing _like me_, she doesn't say.

She stands then, crosses her arms, walks over to him.

"You don't even know what you're talking about."

"Actually, the problem is that _you_ don't know what I'm talking about."

"No, I don't. But, that's nothing new." She comes closer, close as she dares without actually touching him, but what she'd really like to do is give him a big shove backwards as hard as she can because maybe _that_ would get across what she's trying to say—

But then his anger is gone, along with whatever else he was carrying around with him. He exhales, deflates, softens. He slides one hand along her cheek and cups it and the gesture is so tender and intimate and _sweet_ she can only stand and stare up at him, watching, waiting.

//

Her bra is red. She bought the damn red bra years ago on a whim and never wears it because she thinks it looks _trampy_ (and it's her mom's voice she hears when she thinks it), but everything else was dirty this morning and she threw it on under a blue sweater and was _aware_ of it against her skin all day long. Now Bobby is also very _aware_ of it, apparently, because he has removed her blue sweater and is staring at her chest with a kind of reverence she's never received before in her life.

"What?" she can't help asking because what she wants to do is pull the sheet up in front of her, protectively, and as if he can read her thoughts he catches her wrists in one hand and holds them down. He slides his other hand along the side of one breast and cups it and the gesture is so tender and intimate and _erotic_ she can only sit and stare up at him, watching, waiting.

"I just…I didn't know. I didn't realize."

"What?" she asks again.

"How beautiful you are."

And she wants to tell him he's being very silly, but she also wants to believe him so she says nothing, not even _thank you_ but instead leans forward, into his hand, and kisses him for the second time in her life.

And he wants everything to be perfect but he's so nervous and anxious and enthralled he's afraid he's messing everything up. He hasn't realized how much he wants this, wants her, until he lays his hands on her and she responds, and touches him, too. He thinks any minute he will wake up, alone, hung over or beat up, alone.

And she becomes hyper-aware of the situation, to the point where she can hear every single breath, every gasp, feel every hair, every fingertip, see every bit of everything and she gets dizzy, closes her eyes and holds her breath for so long he pulls back and asks her if she's _all right_.

And every time he touches her he is slightly tentative and careful and can't help wondering just why she's letting him touch her this way. He actually wants to stop and ask her if what he's doing feels all right. But as they go along he gains confidence because then they're both naked and it's just a lot of skin on skin and it's incredibly sensual and more than erotic and completely fucking _surreal_, really. He can't get enough of her, he can't touch her enough and he doesn't want to hurt her, but when he cups her breasts and she makes those little noises he thinks he might just die or explode or something equally dramatic but something in his brain flares and he presses his mouth to every inch of skin he can reach and tries to not consume her.

And her hands, which have always seemed _dainty_ but capable to him are more than capable, he finds, and manage to find every single part of him that needs to be found and with a skill that is nothing short of astonishing.

And he knows she is small, but when he has his arms completely around her he realizes how small she is and he desperately tries to imprint every detail: the curve behind her knee, the jut of her elbow, the length of her collarbone, the span of her waist before it's all over.

And it's more than just being _inside_ of her, although that is more than enough to deal with when it actually happens—

And when she comes he has to stop for a moment to process what has just happened—

And when he comes she sees she'll never again not know the sound he makes, the shudder and release of him, how he says her name, how there's no going back and she can't imagine being with anyone else anymore.

//

"I missed your call last week because I was helping someone with a problem," he says in the dark, as if she's asked.

"Oh." She pretends to have no clue what he's talking about. Then, "Who?"

"Flavia."

"Oh." _Flavia?_ Dumb stupid name.

"I was…seeing her for awhile."

"That's nice. You…we _both_…need distractions outside work, you know?"

"I…had to stop. Seeing her. I couldn't see her anymore. I'm _not_ seeing her anymore." He pauses. "That night you came over...that's why I couldn't let you..."

"Oh. Okay." She'd like to disappear into a hole in the floor at this moment, but no such hole appears. Of course. She wishes he'd stop talking but at the same time she's desperate to hear what he has to say.

"She wanted me to be someone I wasn't."

"I hate it when that happens."

"She wanted me to be in love with her."

"Oh."

"And I wasn't, you see."

"Bobby, you _really_ don't need to tell me any of—"

"No, listen, okay? Listen. This is important. I keep trying. Well, once in awhile, anyway, I try. I try to find someone, to meet someone, do what I'm supposed to do, fall in love, get married, maybe, have kids if it's not too late. All of that. And…it keeps getting ruined. Every time. Because at the point where I realize I'm supposed to _be in love_ with this person, I get stuck. I realize I'm not _in love_ with any of them because I'm_ in love_ with someone else."

Oh.

She realizes this is the point in the conversation when she is supposed to say something like _Who?_ or, _Do I know her?_ but all she can do is blink hard and try to keep herself from thinking this, all of this, is going to get all fucked up one way or another, no matter how hard they try to keep it good.

//


	6. Thread 6

**Title:** Red Threads  
**Author:** Scribere Est Agere  
**Pairing: **Goren/Eames  
**Spoilers: **Everything  
**Rating:** M  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me.

**Summary:** We have to stop meeting like this. A few clichés, and a few more.

A/N: Building the clichés up, one by one by one.

//

Chinese folklore says there is an invisible red thread connecting those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break.

//

"I don't fucking—" she starts loudly.

Ross looks up sharply, unused to Eames uttering any kind of profanity, at least in his presence. He raises an eyebrow. She's not even looking at him, but at some spot just above his head. Her eyes are narrowed and hard and her hands are balled at her sides. Then she exhales and shakes her head once, twice.

"—believe this," she finishes quietly.

Ross clasps his hands on his desk, braces himself.

"I thought he'd already told you—" He purses his lips. "He _told_ me that he'd _told you_…"

She snorts.

"He lied."

Oh.

"Oh. Well."

"I haven't talked to him since—"

She makes herself stop.

Bobby had been gone, in fact, when she woke up that morning, the morning _after_, two days ago now, and she hadn't heard a word from him in the meantime. And now he was—

Still gone.

Ross shuffles some papers on his desk, purses his lips, shuffles some more.

"It's just a couple of weeks, probably less—"

"Doesn't matter," she cuts him off, something else Eames never does.

Oh. Well.

He tries again.

"You know better than anyone what he's been through in the past few years, the past few _months_ even. And he's never allowed himself to…recover. Properly. I keep forcing him to take leaves and he keeps…coming _back_. Early. Too early, clearly." He clears his throat, makes a face like it hurts. "This time…this time he _asked_…which I took as a good sign, right? A sign that he's ready to…I don't know. Get better. Get _healthy_."

Oh. _Well_.

Okay, then.

"Uh huh."

Ross cuts his eyes to her, but she's still not looking at him. When she finally speaks again her voice sounds very tight and small, like she's holding something in or back or at bay. Or, choking.

"When did he leave?" she asks politely.

"This morning, I think. I spoke to him late last night." Ross looks at her, wonders really what she's thinking. "Eames, I have a temporary replacement for you, if you want, but like I said, it's only for a short time. Goren really did sound very tired. I think this break will only be good for him…and you, too."

God. Is he _pleading_ with her?

She nods, _uh huh_, gritting her teeth behind her lips. Goddamn him. Goddamn him. Goddamn both of them. She gathers herself, unclenches her hands, even smirks a little.

"Is that all, then?"

Ross purses his lips again, looks down at his fingers, which are knuckle-white with his own clenching.

"Yes. Yes. I think so."

"Okay." She finally looks right at him and her eyes are clear and rational, but not _hers_, not completely present, in the moment. "I'll be getting to work, then."

And she leaves.

And Ross exhales.

//

He left her early the morning _after_, before she woke up, but not before he spent four minutes and 21 seconds staring at her sleeping face in the pale morning light.

He loved her. He knew this. He _knows_ this. It's not even worth arguing about, but the thought flitters through his tired brain unbidden.

He _loves_ her. Fine. Okay.

Now what?

As he watched her that morning, the morning _after_, he tried to think of a relationship that had worked out, a relationship in his life that was healthy and happy and lasting and good and he couldn't think of any. Couldn't think of one. Well, besides this one. And Lewis, maybe. And the thought of not having her in his life was like a kind of death, really, if he was going to get all emotional and dramatic about the whole thing.

So he lay next to her and watched her and thought these things and wondered what he could do to make it better, make it okay.

Eventually it came to him, the answer, the solution that had been there, waiting, all the time, the solution that made him sigh and close his eyes.

And because he loved her,_ loves her_, he had to leave.

So, he did.

//

She doesn't think about him much during the days. In truth, she's just too busy trying to stay on top of a job meant for two people. She has declined Ross's offer of a temporary partner because she can't stomach the thought of working with someone, anyone, other than Bobby. And it's only for two weeks, right? Maybe even less, right?

Then two days pass, three, four, five.

She refuses to call his cell. She outright refuses. She refuses for two whole days and then finally gives in and calls and it goes straight to voicemail and she swears loud and harsh and hangs up.

She starts to think the past few months were something she imagined, some kind of bizarre sexually charged Twilight Zone experience.

Until _he_ calls.

She goes to bed early these days. She's so weary when she finally drags herself home to her apartment it's all she can do to get undressed, shower, shovel a few bites of food in and collapse on her bed.

She thinks about reading or listening to music or calling her sister, but those are all too complicated and require too much energy, so she makes tea and watches the steam rise and curl above the mug instead, which requires only lying very still and not thinking about anything.

She answers the phone halfway through the first ring.

"Hey." It's him.

Hey? _Hey?_ She wants to laugh.

"Who is this?" she says instead.

There is a very long pause. Then he clears his throat.

"It's…uh…"

Pause.

"Yeah. I know who it is."

Pause.

"Oh."

Now what? She wonders. She wonders if she even cares. But then, of course, Iof course/I she realizes she does. She's suddenly very tired.

"So. Where are you?"

"I'm at…uh a pay phone."

She's about to tell him to just _fuck right off_ but decides she used up all her energy watching tea steam.

"Right. Okay. Where, exactly?"

"About…four hours away."

_Fuck. Right. Off._

"I mean—"

His voice is low and strained and she has to strain to hear it.

"Lewis's family has this…cabin. They've had it for years. I come here once in awhile. That's…where I'm staying."

"Uh huh. Alone?"

"Uh…yeah…" He stops. He gets it. "Jesus, Eames. Yes. _Yes_. Of course I'm alone." Now it's getting interesting. He's getting mad. He pauses. "Are you?"

She smiles, backs off. "Yeah." She shifts on her bed, looks at her tea, getting cold. Things were simpler when she'd made that tea. Not much, but a little. "So. What else is new?"

"I'm…sorry I…I'm just…taking a break." He pauses. "Didn't Ross tell you?"

"Yes. But I, you know, kind of wanted to hear it from you, since, you know, you're the one I'm sleeping with." She stops. "Well, slept with. Once. Or, maybe that doesn't count—"

"Eames—

"When are you coming back?"

"Uh…not sure yet. This is…uh…well. I'll be back soon…I just need some time, I guess."

Time.

"Right. Well. Take all the time you need, I guess."

She hangs up.

//

The cabin is cold and dank and lonely and exactly what he needs. He has his cell but it's off. There is no electricity, no running water. He's brought supplies, food and water to get him through two weeks, but the small town is close enough for what he needs. He had wanted to call the moment he'd left her, but he couldn't, because he didn't know what to say and even if he did he'd mess it all up anyway.

Ross had sounded anything but upset when he'd called to ask for some time off. He'd sounded, in fact, quite relieved and…happy? As happy as Ross ever sounded, anyway.

"Good! Good. I'm glad to hear it. I think…it's…good. Really."

"Me, too."

"Have you…spoken to Eames about it?"

"Uh…kind of." He moved forward quickly. "Anyway, she'll understand."

"Of course, of course." Again with the relief and the _happiness_.

"Two weeks."

"Good. Right. Two weeks."

"Okay."

"Good."

And that was that.

He spends his days walking in the woods and his evenings watching the stars and listening to the quiet and sleeping more deeply than he has in months, years, his entire life, maybe. He tries to write, but not much comes. He's brought a few books, but he loses interest after a few pages.

He thinks about her constantly.

His head hurts and his heart, too, if he's being truthful.

He misses her so much.

He wasn't going to call again until he was ready to come back.

He calls the next day.

And the next.

And the day after that.

//

"Me again."

"I know."

"Just wanted to say hi."

"Uh huh."

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Are…you all right?"

"Great."

"Okay."

"Uh huh."

"Good night, Eames."

"Yeah."

//

"Hi. It's me again."

"I know."

"How was your day?"

"Lovely."

"I…miss you."

"Then why did you leave?"

Okay then.

"I left because…I couldn't…I _can't_ stand the thought…the possibility of fucking this…us…up."

"Yeah? Well, guess what. You pretty much did exactly that by leaving."

She hangs up.

"I love you, too," he says.

//

"It's me."

"Uh huh."

"I'll…I'm coming home tomorrow night

"And you're telling me this because…?"

"Because…" I miss you and I love you and I miss you and I love you and—

He hears her sigh, harsh and weary.

"Whatever."

She hangs up.

//

His apartment is exactly as he left it nine days ago, which means it's still dark and musty and dirty and depressing. He throws his bag down, checks his messages (none), and feels suddenly, overwhelmingly exhausted. He collapses on the nearest chair and picks up his phone.

He calls Lewis, tells him he's back, thanks him, again, tells him to come get the key whenever.

He calls Eames. She's not answering.

Of course. Did he expect her to be clinging to her phone, waiting for his call?

Stupid.

It's late and she's either at work, still…or out.

He leaves a message, wonders if she'll ever talk to him again, at least willingly.

"Well…I'm home. I…just got home and…I'm here and I'm really tired. Just wanted to…let you know…"

He wants to sleep but realizes very quickly that he cannot. Instead he showers and changes and wanders around restlessly for three minutes before realizing he can't stand it, can't be here, can't _breathe_ here.

But, now he's home, really home, and there's nowhere else to go.

//

Okay. He's coming home. He's coming back. Fine. Whatever.

She pretends to not care, for a day.

She keeps her cell close, checks it compulsively for calls that don't come.

She finishes work later than usual, gathers her belongings together and goes to her car. She drives towards her apartment, thinking she'll wait for him, wait for him to call, like an idiot.

And somewhere between the dead air of the parking garage and the noisy commute traffic, she checks her cell again and realizes she's missed a call. From him. She immediately calls back but he doesn't pick up and she finds herself changing lanes and driving towards _his_ apartment instead.

Funny how that happens.

His car is there, parked where it always is, and just seeing it makes her heart do a funny squeeze in her chest.

Stupid.

She parks and gathers herself for something. For what, she's not sure, but she'd rather confront him on his turf than hers tonight.

She walks across the street, hesitantly, hands shoved in her coat pockets to keep them from trembling or doing something weird like pick at her chin. She looks up, sees the light in his apartment, feels her chest thud and thump erratically and curses herself for it.

She missed him so much.

She hates him so much.

She loves him so fucking much.

_Whatev—_

Everything after that happens very loudly and quickly.

She remembers a bright, blinding flash of light, tremendous overwhelming heat, flying backwards, more heat and light, noise, a harsh _whoosh_, something like glass breaking and bricks smashing.

Maybe the world is ending.

Well, _her_ world, anyway.

The building, Bobby's apartment building, the place where he lives, where he _is_ has blown apart.

The world is fire and heat and light and death.

Alex is thrown back, slammed down heavily on her shoulder and arm. She curls in on herself, shields her face instinctively as sharp and heavy things rain down on her and other bystanders.

Bobby.

_Bobby_.

Bobby.

No no no no no nononononononoonono—

She manages to raise herself up on one sore and swollen elbow, put a hand to her face. When she pulls it away her fingers are wet and sticky with a liquid that is logically red but looks dark and slickly black in the flames and light of the fire that has engulfed the building and swallowed her whole world.

//

_tbc_


	7. Thread 7

**Title:** Red Threads  
**Author:** Scribere Est Agere  
**Pairing:** Goren/Eames  
**Spoilers: **Everything  
**Rating:** M  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me.

**Summary:** We have to stop meeting like this. A few clichés, and a few more.

**A/N:** Knocking the clichés down, one by one by one. And now we're done.

//

Chinese folklore says there is an invisible red thread connecting those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break.

//

She doesn't believe it.

Later she will remember the sounds, the thundering roar of the fire and the smashing of glass, the ceaseless sirens, the screams, general panic and mayhem noises, but for the moment all she is aware of is heat. Her inner world is oddly silent, but she's hot. At first she thinks it's just blood dripping down her face, stinging her eyes, but she realizes it's sweat, too, and maybe some tears mixed in for good measure. But probably not tears because she's not really sad yet. She's not really anything except sore and _hot_.

He can't be dead. He can't. That's just not possible.

There's a lot of movement and confusion and she sits sprawled on the ground for a while just watching Bobby's building burn down in front of her. Someone kind helps her to her feet eventually, asks if she's all right and she nods, even though it's a lie, but the kind person believes her and hurries away to help someone who _is_ hurt. She scans the crowds of people for his familiar face, his familiar shape and gait, but sees nothing. Nothing.

She finds an ambulance attendant, asks where the wounded will be taken but she can't really concentrate on anything other than how she feels _burned_ from the inside out, like she's sucked in fire, like she's giving off smoke. She stands and watches the frenzied activity but can't make sense of any of it and finally she just walks away, unseen, unnoticed, not hearing anything but the painful thudding in her chest and head, not feeling anything but the warm steady flow of blood moving along her scalp and through her hair.

//

She sits in her apartment, in the dark, for hours it seems. She calls the local hospitals, all of them, asking for updates on injuries and/or deaths from the apartment explosion but his name does not come up and no one is unidentified. She calls work, on the very unlikely chance he went there. She tells someone what has happened, says she doesn't know where Bobby is, that _no one knows_. The voice on the other end (Caldwell? Cooper?) sounds shocked and morbidly delighted at the same time. She wonders then if she's the only person left in the world who would actually miss him, mourn him, if he was—

She won't go there yet.

She's sitting in the dark clutching the phone when she hears the knock, tentative, quiet.

She staggers from the couch, down the hallway, everything in her stomach crawling up her throat, throws open the door—

—and Lewis is standing there, pale, fidgety.

His eyes are red-rimmed and he smells like smoke. They stare at one another, bizarre survivors of a bizarre event.

"You already know," is what he says. She only bites the inside of her cheek, afraid of what her voice will sound like if she speaks.

"I went over to his apartment…to pick up the key…he called and said he was back and…"

For one horrible moment she thinks he's going to collapse in her arms, sobbing and she knows without a doubt she cannot handle Lewis collapsing or sobbing over Bobby.

"Lewis…"

She notices then that he's holding something in his hands. It's an envelope. His hands are shaking and the envelope shakes, too. Lewis licks his lips several times before he starts speaking.

"Bobby…Bobby told me to give this to you."

Alex stares at it. She won't touch it. She refuses.

"What do you mean? When?"

"Oh…geez. Uh. Awhile ago. A year, maybe. We…we were drunk. Well, almost drunk. Getting drunk, you know? And he pulled this out of his pocket and said to me, real serious, to give it to you if he…ever…you know."

"If he ever what?"

Lewis licks his lips again.

"Died."

Alex closes her eyes and grips the doorframe. Please go away, she thinks. I need to wake up now.

"Lewis," she begins. "Lewis, we don't know for sure that Bobby is…"

"Then why hasn't he called? Why hasn't he contacted me? Why hasn't he contacted _you_?"

She wraps her arms around herself, as if suddenly cold.

"Alex—"

"Maybe he's just injured. Maybe he's waiting for treatment—"

"I was at the hospital. Several hospitals. He's not there. He wasn't admitted." He stops. "He called me _from his apartment_ just before…it…"

He puts two fingers to the bridge of his nose and presses hard.

She lets her hands drop to her sides. They feel unnaturally heavy. They also feel detached from the rest of her body. Lewis holds the envelope out again.

"Please…please just take it."

She does. She doesn't want to read it, because reading it will make everything that has happened too close and too real, so she shoves it in her pocket and shuts the door slowly in Lewis's grief-stricken face.

She wants to sleep or forget but realizes very quickly that she cannot do either. Instead she pulls on a sweater and wanders around restlessly for three minutes before realizing she can't stand it, can't be here, can't _breathe_ here.

She grabs her car keys and leaves.

//

He went out for a four hour marathon walk to clear his head and breathe again and he comes back to fire and chaos and mayhem. He comes back to death and destruction and smoke and. He can only stand and watch as foundations crumble, water drips.

He stands with a group of gawkers across the street, murmurs, "What…what happened here?"

A tall skinny guy talks without looking over.

"Gas leak."

The group stands huddled together, happy to be alive.

"That was my place." Bobby says absently, points at the gaping black hole, still smoldering.

"You _live_ here?" the guy says. He finally looks at Bobby, eyes wide and admiring.

"Well…I did." Bobby stands staring at the wreck of the building, his home, at scorched bricks and black smoke. "I was out…walking."

"You picked a hell of a good time to go for a walk." The guy laughs and shakes his head. "You are one lucky man."

Bobby nods and thinks that is definitely one way of looking at it.

Then he thinks: I need to find Eames.

//

So, she thinks as she drives and drives. This is how it ends.

She's not as surprised as she thought she'd be. In fact, she feels rather numb. Even her head has stopped hurting. She can feel the blood, stiff and thick and drying in her hair and along the side of her face.

No, she's not surprised. She's known all along she realizes suddenly, that she'd lose him one day. Not a self-pitying thought, but rather a sad and honest fact of life.

She can't go home. She can't sit in that apartment alone because she can see him and smell him and feel him everywhere. She needs, she realizes suddenly, to be somewhere completely foreign, anonymous. Someplace the two of them have never been. A motel room will do nicely.

She stops at a liquor store. She wanders the glass-lined rows aimlessly, catches fragmented reflections of herself in brown and green and gold and red curves. A sleeve here, a cheek there.

She buys a quart of whiskey, because it's what he would have done, most likely, under these circumstances.

She grips the brown bag around the neck as she gets back into her car. She drives. She finds the nearest motel, low and dark, parking lot half-filled. There are lights on in a few windows, square and yellow. She sits in the parking lot for five minutes, fingers wrapped so tightly around the bottle's neck they start to cramp up. She closes her eyes. She opens them, then opens the door.

She checks in.

//

A ghost walks through the bright and busy halls of One Police Plaza. No one notices at first, because who notices a ghost? But then:

"Holy shit! It's Goren!"

"I heard he was dead."

"Nothing can kill him, clearly…"

"Where's Eames?" he says to anyone who will listen.

"Goren—"

"Where is she? I need to talk to her and she's not answering her cell. She's not in her apartment. I _need_ to _talk to her_—"

Someone (Caldwell? Cooper? Bobby can never keep the smug prick's name straight) leans against a file cabinet, amused, aloof.

"She called with the 'news of your death' earlier. Sounded pretty upset, actually."

"Did she say where she was? Where she was going?"

Caldwell/Cooper shrugs, shakes his head. "Nope. Just wanted to let us know you probably wouldn't be gracing us with your presence anymore." He pauses. "She's a cute little number. We've been wondering for years whether there was something going on between you two. Of course, I've always said no way, not with your ugly mug."

"Yeah?" Bobby leans close, smiles wickedly. "Well, I guess she likes my ugly mug well enough. We've been sleeping together for months. Be sure to let everyone know."

He manages to leave without breaking a single thing.

//

Through the window the flashing red light of the vacancy sign mesmerizes her for several long moments as she attempts to get her bearings.

She lies on the bed, pours herself a drink, and opens the letter.

//

He's driving like a mad man, barely controlled, mind racing. Okay. Okay _okay_. I She's not at home. She's not at work. Where would she go? He tries her cell again.

_Hi, I'm not here right now. Please leave a—_

Fuck.

He pulls over suddenly, heart pounding triple time. Is he having a heart attack? He rests his head on the steering wheel, forces his grip to relax, his mind to wander.

_Eames. I need to find you. Where are you? Eames. Eames._

When he's relatively sure he's not going to have a stroke, he keeps driving, keeps looking.

He sees a sign out of the corner of his eye, one that captures his attention and makes him turn his head suddenly to his right. Flashing red, large _Vacancy Vacancy Vacancy_. Red. He slows, stares, scans the parking lot, bathed in red. License plates. He studies each one, for the one he has memorized.

Her car.

He slams on the brakes.

//

_Dear Alex—_

_I'm a little bit drunk right now but not too drunk to realize what I'm writing which is a letter to _you _hahaha_.

_Anyway I just wanted to tell you something that I've been wanting to tell you for a long time now but I guess I don't have the guts to tell you to your face so I'm gonna write it down for you and then I'm gonna put it in an envelope and then I'm gonna give it to Lewis to give to you if I should ever meet with an untimely demise hahaha. I think I have nine lives though, at least, and I figure I have about five more to use up, so I should be around for awhile—_

//

He scans the guest register and finds a scrawled name, barely legible, while the bored clerk watches TV and sneaks a beer.

Room 241.

He runs.

//

_Anyway I guess you know by know that I like you a lot. A whole lot. Well I guess I'd say I love you but I won't. Say it, I mean. At least not to your face._

_Anyway I've been thinking about you a lot and I need to tell you something. Not I love you, which I do, but something else, something I've been thinking for awhile but now I'm almost drunk enough to write it down even though you'll never read it anyway because I'll never die so._

_Anyway this is what I wanted to tell you. It's a story that goes like this—_

She tears her eyes away only when she hears a frantic knock at her door.

"Who is it?" she says.

//

A dead man stands, rumpled and out of breath, in her seedy motel doorway. She stares at the dead man. She doesn't say a word.

"Eames." He makes a move towards her. She moves back. She watches his eyes rake her face, her body, sees him frown. "You're…hurt. Are you hurt?" He touches her head, his fingers brushing against the stiffness of the dried blood. He runs his hands up and down her arms, across her shoulders, up her neck. "Are you…_bleeding_?"

She swallows. She back up again.

"You're dead."

He moves closer. She moves away.

"Eames."

He leans down and kisses her. She breaks free.

"No."

He kisses her again, and again. He can smell and taste alcohol on her lips. She's been drinking but she's not drunk, not yet.

"Yes, you are. You're dead."

"No, no. I'm not. Look. Eames— Alex, I'm here—" He reaches for her. She flinches. He reaches again, grabs her wrist, pulls it towards him.

"You're dead. I saw the fire. I saw your apartment— Lewis. He came. He gave me—"

"I know. I know. It was…I wasn't there…I'm sorry– I tried to call—"

He keeps pulling her to him and she keeps pulling back, but not as strongly as before. She's aware of cold outside air brushing her arms, her legs, but there's heat on her mouth, on her back where his hands rest. He closes the door, locks it. The room is dim and doesn't smell very good, like the basement of his apartment smells. Used to smell, he reminds himself.

"What…what are you doing here?" he asks quietly. He has her wrist in his hand, gently, but firmly. She remains standing several feet away, staring, transfixed.

"I…couldn't be home…I couldn't stay there. I felt like I couldn't _breathe_—"

She takes a deep breath now, her chest rising and falling sharply beneath her sweater. Even in the 40-watt lamplight he can see she's very pale. She steps closer.

"You didn't call."

"I did. I did. You…you missed it. We…missed each other." He doesn't take his eyes off her, not once.

"You're…not…"

He shakes his head.

"No. No, I'm not."

She steps closer. He can feel her warmth now, finally, can almost feel her breath on his face as she looks up at him. She takes her free hand, moves I up very slowly, rests it on his chest very lightly. She speaks very quietly.

"I thought you were dead."

He nods. "I know."

Then, defensively: "Lewis did, too."

He puts a hand against her cheek, lets his thumb move along her jaw. She might be trembling, but it might be him, too. They are both in shock.

"Alex."

She softens then, relaxes. He sees her chin dimple and quiver, sees the liquid rise in her eyes.

"Oh Eames—" He pulls her to him and she lets him. He puts his arms around her, tight, tighter, and she lets him. Her arms remain at her sides, though, dangling, numb. He kisses the top of her head, her forehead, her hairline. She winces. "You _are_ hurt."

"I'm not. I'm not."

She finally lifts her arms, wraps them around him, holds on for dear life, holds on like she'll never let go.

"I was…reading your letter," she says into his coat.

"My…"

Letter.

He realizes. Lewis. Dead. Drunk. Oh. God. Good old reliable Lewis.

"My…letter."

"I didn't get to finish it."

He nods, smiles. He feels like laughing.

"It's okay. I'll tell you the ending. I know it by heart."

And so, in the quiet and the dark, lying close beside her with one hand on her hip and the other entwined in her hair and her breath fanning against his chest, he finishes the story:

"Chinese folklore says there is an invisible red thread connecting those who are destined to meet—"

//

_Fin_


End file.
